I want to write the kind of poem,
that you my dear deserve,
for I've an idea within my mind,
and a purpose for it to serve.
But how can I write
of one so perfect as you?
Yet though I've scrapped a thousand poems,
I'm still trying to.

when i'd be asked in the past
'do you collect anything?'
as a child i'd feel an obligation

my friends collected buttons,
christmas ******* rings,
compiled shells,
or gas station keyrings

so i collected can tops
and squishy toys from beach side shops
pointy pointless scraps of metal
that now sit in a dusty jar
and stuffed lizards and seahorses
in a box under an old bed

and when they said
they didn't get it
i knew i didn't either
but i'd say the metal
is sentimental
it really is a keeper
honest

and now i'm older
i'm no objector
to being a collector
promise

because in a box
inside my heart
beyond the dust,
i'm honest,
i keep a stash
tied in a sash
of all the things
i've sprinkled with stardust

of all the memories
of days i loved
and too ones fogged with miseries

of scars formed from thunderstorms
for thorns are as much of a blessing
as the caressing from surrounding roses

of people who loved me
and people i despised
of eyes i glanced at once and
should i see again
would go unrecognised

for when i'm collecting moments
i am collecting lives
and there is no better way
to be alive
than revising every moment
as if it were chosen
by you
from that gas station
instead of just through obligation

I will walk until I feed the soil with my bones
and I will not stop for food or water
as I do not need these things for where I aim to go.

I will not look back at who I leave behind,
at who will age and crumble where they stand
as these statues do not line the halls of where I aim to rest.

The years will pass beneath my feet like dreams within my sleep,
and names will fade from faces and those faces to the distance.
Of all the places they will haunt not one will be my thoughts.

My soul will ware with each desert crossed
leaving pieces of myself at every corner turned
until I walk on bruised and ****** heels leaving crimson prints behind.

The heat will bake my skin, the rain will wash the dust,
and this coat of skin hanging on these bones will fall;
I will be then just my core, only bones outside an empty husk

Bones are brittle and will break, marrow staining resting rocks.
This last effigy will fail, falling forward with momentum
pointing in direction one last time at where I aim to go

I will then be free.

have you ever know somebody too well
you even recognize their footsteps sound?
how those thumps match your heartbeat
as the person walks towards your feet
and the moment his skin touches yours,
you remember why you are made for